The Box
by Elma MacBetsy
Summary: Set series 2 time, I guess. Wilson uncovers one of House's secrets.


**So I was having a clear out of my hard drive, and came across a couple of stories that I wrote years and years ago. So I thought** **I may as well put it up, even if now I would hardly call it an example of quality writing :P**

He hadn't meant to find it. He usually left the snooping to House. But House had been at the hospital all evening, and he'd got bored. Not bored enough to invade his friend's privacy – a courtesy he only wished would be returned – but enough to look through House's books. It shouldn't have been such a hardship – Wilson liked reading, and House had a_lot_of books – but half of them were in languages he didn't even recognise, which was just one more thing to help him feel inferior. He thought he'd seen an old copy of _King__Lear_ on the top shelf, though. It was a play he remembered enjoying when he'd studied it in high school, and seemed like a safe enough bet now.

He moved the short ladder – how was House managing a ladder anyway? – round to the appropriate section, and climbed up far enough to be able to reach the pile of books that was there. He sorted through them, and then shifted them aside to reach the ones behind. He was about to give up when his hand brushed against something that was definitely not a book. He pulled it forward – a box. His first instinct was to put it back straight away and resign himself to whatever House had TiVod the night before, however unbearable it might be (unless it was more power tools, he quickly amended). But he couldn't help but wonder what House could be keeping in a green metal box underneath a pile of books at the back of a bookshelf. He lifted it, descended the ladder and placed the box on the coffee table.

He sat on the sofa with his hands together, just staring at the box. He didn't want to pry. And, as hypocritical as is was, House wouldn't stand for anyone prying into his life. But still…he had to know. House was his best friend, messed up as the relationship was, yet still he was, nonetheless, a mystery. Any opportunity to unravel even a small part of that mystery was not to be missed.

He opened the box, and almost wished he hadn't. Its contents surprised him, although, really, it shouldn't have. And he'd been wasting all that time worrying about House's Vicodin intake. A tourniquet, needles and syringes…not to mention the drug itself, whatever it was. Wilson couldn't quite seem to find the courage to look at the labels. Logically, he knew it was probably more pain meds, admittedly ones stolen from the hospital – definitely still a problem, a big problem, but understandable. But he couldn't stop thinking…thinking about House's skill in preparing the Benadryl to snort…the time he'd taken LSD for a migraine… Clearly House had no qualms over illicit drug use. Was it so hard to believe that he had other addictions?

Before he could change his mind, he grabbed up one of the small bottles. Morphine. His fist tightened around it. Morphine. He dropped it back in the box. There were two big emotions warring in his head. Almost unbearable sadness was one, as he considered how much pain House would have to have been in to do this. He thought of House pacing his living room in an effort to distract himself, so very much _alone_. He thought of him finally giving up on the Vicodin – probably after having quite a lot more than was healthy – and trying to climb up the ladder to the top shelf to get this box. Except House wouldn't be very stable on a ladder, and especially not when he was in pain. He'd probably fallen off at least once – maybe a few times. Would he have been able to get back up? When he was late for work, or when Wilson couldn't get hold of him all weekend, was he just lying there, too proud to ask for help?

Or maybe that wasn't it at all, the other half of him argued – the angry part. What if he was just too high to call? Or if he was being responsible with it – in as much as 'responsible' could apply to illegally shooting up drugs – was he sleeping off the last shot? House wasn't stupid; he almost definitely wouldn't come to work while still feeling the effects of morphine. But then Wilson thought of some of the times House seemed a little too…well, insane was the first word that sprung to mind. A bit more than just 'neutral'. It occurred to him that he clearly knew even less about his friend than he thought, and suddenly he wanted to be as far way from the box he'd found as possible.

Eyes never leaving the needles, he curled up in the opposite corner of the couch and considered his options. A variety of scenarios played out in his mind.

House would come home. He would see the box, see Wilson _with_ the box, and get angry. He'd try and throw his friend out, furious at the invasion into his personal life – so personal, it seemed, that it didn't include his best friend. But there'd be some sign, some give away, and Wilson would know. Maybe his hand would be shaking slightly. Maybe he'd be sweating more than was appropriate for the weather. And Wilson would _know_.

_Face it, House, you're addicted!_

And House would try to deny it, but he'd need a fix so bad he'd confess everything. There'd be tears and shouting. Wilson would beg and plead. House would make empty threats and even emptier promises. Eventually, Wilson would be unable to watch his friend suffer in the beginnings of morphine withdrawal, and he'd let him have it, hating himself every second for it.

Maybe Wilson would manage to persuade him to get help, to finally make the effort and go to rehab. He'd even let him stick with the Vicodin and wouldn't complain about it again, because surely anything would be better than this. Or maybe Wilson would turn up the next evening and find his friend passed out – _dead?_ – on the sofa, and that would be the end.

No, that was the worst case scenario, Wilson decided, and far less likely than he was starting to believe.

House would come home. He would see the box, see Wilson _with_ the box, and get quiet, perhaps embarrassed by the revelation. He would look away and refuse to meet his friend's eyes. Wilson would search his mind for the right phrasing, and would eventually grasp upon the words and tone needed to latch onto the part of House that cared, truly cared, about what the other man thought of him.

_I just wanted a book._

Wilson would say it as a simple explanation, but with a subtle touch of desperation that House wouldn't miss. House would swallow, once, twice, before speaking.

_Sometimes__my__leg__…__sometimes__it__'__s__really,_really_,__bad,__and__I__can__'__t__…_

It's not a problem, he'd say. Wilson shouldn't worry; he only uses it occasionally. They won't manage to establish how often 'occasionally' actually is. A few times a year? A couple of times a month? Wilson would ask.

_Only when I think I'm dying._

It would answer none of Wilson's questions, but put a stop to them nevertheless. House would be embarrassed by his pain, so Wilson wouldn't push it further. He'd ask one thing, though, before leaving, but again House's words would do little to reassure him.

_I__know__what__I__'__m__doing_.

A more realistic play-out, Wilson admitted, yet no more preferable than the first, in all honesty. Perhaps it was even worse. The second could, and possibly would, easily lead to the first, only with the added bonus of Wilson knowing just how much pain his friend was in. No, neither would do. A third scene came to mind.

House would come home. He wouldn't see the box, wouldn't see Wilson _with_ the box, because Wilson would've put it away. He would bring Chinese with him, and they'd eat in the living room out of the cartons.

_No, I'll wash up tonight. It's my turn._

Wilson would roll his eyes at his friend's ploy – because of _course_ there would be a reason for House bringing _him_ food for once – and probably smile a little too because it was just so _House_. They'd watch whatever House had TiVod, even if it was more power tools, until they'd both lose interest and turn to joking and gossiping about this nurse in peds and that doc' in radiology.

Wilson would frown when, after a couple of hours, House would reach for his pills. The frown would deepen when House swallowed them with the last of his beer, and then chased _that_ down with a gulp of scotch. But he wouldn't comment – _this__time_ – because he'd remember how much worse it could be, how much worse it might _already_ be, and be grateful that tonight House only needed Vicodin. Then he would push the thought from his mind, because he would want to forget everything he'd seen. He'd want to forget how much pain his friend was in, how close he was to crossing the line. He needed his friend just to be his friend, without there being lectures and fear and resentment between them. Even if one day he turned up and found his friend passed out – _dead?_ – on the sofa.

It would be selfish. Incredibly selfish. _Unforgivably_ selfish.

He placed the box back on the shelf.


End file.
